LAS FÓRMULAS DEL SONETO (VI)

Continuando con las fórmulas del soneto en Inglaterra nos centraremos ahora en el Siglo XVII, época en la que muchos poetas prodigaron nuevos esquemas rítmicos para el soneto.  

WALTER DAVISON

(1581—1608)

A Poetical Rapsody_1602

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SONNET I 

He demands pardon for looking, loving, and writing.

Let not, sweet Saint! Let not these lines offend you;

Nor yet the message that these lines impart:

The Message my unfeigned love doth send you,

Love, which yourself hath planted in my heart.

For being charm'd by the bewitching art

Of those inveigling graces which attend you,

Love’s holy fire makes me breathe out in part,

The never-dying flames my breast doth lend you.

Then if my lines offend, let Love be blamed;

And if my love displease, accuse mine eyes:

If mine eyes sin, their sin’s cause onely lies

On your bright eyes, which have my heart inflamed.

Since eyes, love, lines, err then by your direction,

Excuse mine eyes, my lines, and my affection.

NICHOLAS BRETON

(1545—1626)

The Soules Harmony_1602

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SONNET I

My soules loues life, & lifes loues soules delight,

How highly are thy holy Angels blest,

That in thy grace enioy the glorious sight,

Wherein the summe of all their ioy doeth rest!

What heauenly musike may those Muses sing,

Who set their consorts by thy sacred skill,

And Angels quauers make the Quiere to ring,

While vertues Ayre doe all the voyces fill?

How may those Spirits be with ioyes possest,

That may be rauisht with this Royall sight,

Where Peter sawe, and in his seeing blest

My soules lifes loue, and loues lifes soules delight!

Oh blessed Peter, blest in such a seeing:

Well might he sing, Sweet Lord, here is good being.

SORROW JOY;

Or, A Lamentation for our Late Deceased Soveraigne Elizabeth,with a Triumph for the Prosperous Succession of our Gratious King Iames, &._1603

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IL FINE

You ill-limd shaddowes of my pensive spirit,

That in dead colours shewe griefs liuing flame,

All grauer judgements your proud dare will blame:

This taske befits a Muse of greater merit.

Cease then rude numbers, of your lines inflame

With sacred furie of diuiner rage:

Confound with woe each person, sexe, and age,

Crie till the hils re-echo back the same.

Nor the loud thunder of your straines asswage,

Till Heauen shall rend the starre-enchaced vaile,

The wheluing orbes in their swift motions faile,

And all things march in funeral equipage.

But O too weake so strongly to preuaile;

Surcease to speake, though never cease to waile.

RICHARD NUGENT

(1574—1604)

Cynthia_1604

  

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SONNET X

To thee, the Lodestone of my heauie thought,

To thee, the Starre that guides my beaten barke,

To thee, the fairest one that nature wrought,

To thee, that art the worlds admired marke,

I send these mournfull hymnes, my zeale hath brought,

From out my lightlesse griefes, Cimmerian darke,

And from dispaires deepe gulfe, that long hath sought,

To drowne thy glorious praise, in my liues Arke.

Appease, (ô louely Mayd) this raging storme,

With thy sweet smiles, to me more comfortable,

Than his Ermoes, to the Sea-mans eyes.

What though mine artlesse lines want phrase, and forme,

Thy fauours, may their lowlinesse enable,

To lift thy sacred name aboue the skies.

THE DEDICATION OF THIS BOOK 

To the right honourable the Ladie of Trymlestowne.

Ladie most worthy, of most estimation,

In whome all goodnesse is together knit,

Whose vertues purchase fame, fame admiration,

Of holyest will, ioyn'd with a heau'nly wit,

Whose praise, if I would shew by word, or writ,

(A Theame too hye for Ciceroes Oration)

My words, from my thoughts reach as low would flet,

As my thoughts reach, from so high contemplation:

Receiue in gree, this ill agreeing matter,

An idle worke in idle houres dispatcht:

The Persian King, whose power the world did threat,

Tooke in good worth a poore mans cup of water,

Who needes not scorne a whit to be thus matcht,

If to be good, be more than to be great.

WILLIAM ALEXANDER OF MENSTRIE

(C. 1567—1640)

Aurora_1604

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SONNET 12

Sweet blushing goddesse of the golden morning,

Faire patronesse of all the worlds affaires,

Thou art become so carelesse of my cares,

That I must name thee goddesse of my mourning.

Lo how the Sunne part of thy burthen beares,

And whilest thou doest in pearly drops regrate,

As t'were to pitie thy distressed state,

Exhales the Christall of thy glistring teares;

But I poure forth my vowes before thy shrine,

And whilst thou dost my louing zeale despise,

Do drowne my heart in th'ocean of mine eyes;

Yet daign'st thou not to drie these teares of mine,

Vnlesse it be with th'Aetna of desires,

Which euen amidst those floods doth foster fires.

SONNET 33

O If thou knew'st how thou thy selfe dost harme,

And dost preiudge thy blisse, and spoile my rest:

Then thou would'st melt the yce out of thy brest,

And thy relenting heart would kindly warme.

O if thy pride did not our ioyes controule,

What world of louing wonders should'st thou see!

For if I saw thee once transform'd in me,

Then in thy bosome I would poure my soule,

Then all thy thoughts should in my visage shine.

And if that ought mischanc'd thou should'st not mone,

Nor beare the burthen of thy griefes alone;

No, I would haue my share in what were thine.

And whil'st we thus should make our sorrowes one,

This happie harmonie would make them none.

ALEXANDER CRAIG OF ROSE-CRAIG

(1604—1631)

The Poetical Essayes_1604

The Amorose Songes, Sonets and Elegies_1606

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SONNET 

To His Majestie

When others cease, now I begin to sing;

And now when others hold their peace, I shout:

(The Lord preserve sweete Leonatus King,

That hee may rule great Britane round about:)

But if perhaps your Majestie shall doubt,

what makes me fing whē others hold their peace:

My rusticke Muse when as each one cry'd out,

Could not be heard from so remote a place,

Dombe Woonder then my Sense did so confound,

The greater stroke astonisheth the more,

When as I heard thy name so much renound,

I felt as lying in a sound no sore:

But now reuiu'd, I sing, when others cease,

(In wonted mercie Lord preserve thy Grace.)

TO KALA

When Aedipus did foolishly resigne

His Kingdome to his Sonnes, that he & he,

Aboue the Thebans yeare about should raigne,

And that his Crowne biparted so should be,

Polinices first raignd, but faith we see,

He from the Crowne Eteocles debars:

Thus while they liue, they neuer can agree,

And after death, their burning bones made warrs.

My riuall foe against all right enioyes

That Crowne & Kingdome which pertains to me

That proud vsurper worker of my noyes,

Shall find a foe, vnto the day I die,

And were we dead, that are too long aliue,

Our Ashes in th'exequial vrne would striue.

TO ERANTINA

Ovtthrough the faire and famous Scythian land,

A Riuer runns vnto the Ocean mane:

Hight Hypanis with cleare and cristall strand,

Borderd about with Pine, Firre, Oake, and plane:

Whose siluer streames as they delight the eye,

So none more sweet to either tast or smell.

Yet Exampeus erre his Lord he spies,

Maks him to stinke like Stigian stanks at Hell.

Eu'n so faire Dame (whose shap doth so excell)

Thy glorious rayes, thy shining virtues rare,

No Poets pen, nor Rhetors tong can tell

So farre beyond the bounds of all compare:

Yet are they spoyld with poysning cold disdaine

And such as drink thy beauties floods are slaine.

JOHN DAVIES OF HEREFORD

(C. 1565—1618)

Wittes Pilgrimage_1605

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SONNET LXXXVI

Be not, ô be not careleslie unkinde

To him (sower-Sweet) whose care is all for thee:

Looke in my Hart, through windows of my minde,

And nought but thine owne Image thou shalt see.

Sack not the Temple then, where thon art shrinde

A glorius Monumente of Excellence!

The Shrine's immortal, sith so is my Minde,

Yet maist thou it deface, by plaging Sence.

Thou plaugst my feeling, sith through thee I feele

The hatefulst plagues that Loves Fire can inflict:

My Hart (where thou dost dwell, with Hart of Steele)

Sill flaming, burnes, yet thee it not afflicts:

But wert thou not lessesensible then Steele

Thou coulst not choose but feele the paines I feele!

SONNET XIX

The Stoicks, in their strange Philosophie,

Make All, and Nothing, nothing but all one:

Who say that this World Is: but yet deny

That it hath any Essence of the owne.

But, in our loves (deere Love) the same is true:

For, Thou, being All, art mine, that Nothing am?

I Nothing am that is not All thy due,

So, All and Nothing's nothing but the same!

Then, sith my Nothing and thy All all's one,

Thou, All, I, Nothing, make an Unity:

For, All to Nothing hath conversion,

And, Nothing, unto All, by sympathie:

Then, neede I (Nothing) Thee (All) nothing feare

But All, and Nothing still shall One appeare.

MICHAEL DRAYTON

(1563—1631)

Prefixed to John Davies of Hereford; Holy Roode_1609

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TO M. IOHN DAVIES, MY GOOD FRIEND

Such men as hold intelligence with Letters,

And in that nice and Narrow way of Verse,

As oft they lend, so oft they must be Debters,

If with the Muses they will haue commerce:

Seldome at Stawles, me, this way men rehearse,

To mine Inferiours, not unto my Betters:

He stales his Lines that so doeth them disperse;

I am so free, I loue not Golden-fetters.

And many Lines fore Writers, be but Setters

To them which cheate with Papers; which doth pierse,

Our Credits: when we shew our selues Abetters:

To those that wrong our knowledge: we rehearse

Often (my good Iohn; and I loue) thy Letters;

Which lend me Credit, as I lend my Verse.

DAVID MURRAY OF GORTHY

(1567—1629)

Caelia_1611

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SONNET XV

Days, hours and nights thy presence may detain,

But neither day, nor hour, nor night shall not

Bar thy sweet beauty from mine eyes unseen,

Since so divinely printed in my thought,

That skilful Greek, that Love's Idea wrought,

And limned it so exactly to the eye,

When beauty's rarest patterns he had sought,

With this thy portrait could not matched be,

Though on a table he, most skilful he,

In rarest colours rarest parts presented,

So on a heart if one may match a tree,

Though skilless I thy rarer shape have painted.

Not by Love's self, Love's beauty formed he,

But by thyself, thyself art formed in me.

WILLIAM BROWNE OF TAVISTOCK

(1590—1645)

Poems of William Browne of Tavistock (Two Volumes)_1893-1894

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AMOUR

Like to the world my love I find to be,

Like to the earth my faith itself doth show,

And like the thrilling winds my sighs do blow:

Like to the fire my burning jealousy,

And as a rock my heart in constancy.

Ardent affection is like to the Summer;

My fear cold Winter, senses all benummer,

And like the Spring is memory in me.

Like to the waters are my eye-spent showers,

My thoughts of April are the fading flowers,

My flame like to the Sun is rightly ta’en,

Like to the boundless heaven desire hath been.

My hopes like to the moon do wax and wane;

But Autumn yet in me was never seen.

JOSHUA SYLVESTER

(1563—1618)

A Divine and True Tragi-Comedy_1614

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TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE, WILLIAM HARBERT,

EARL OF PEMBROKE

Patience prevailes (when Passions are undon)

This doth This Volume truly intimate:

So doth Your Vertue, firm, and fortunate,

Now cheer'd with Radiance of our Royall Sun.

O! Long and Happy may Hee shine upon

So Noble a Plant (mo Such to propagate)

So Grace-full, Use-full, both in Court and State;

Help-full to all, Hurt-full at-all to None.

Among Those Many whom your Worth hath won

(Of either Sexe, of every Age, and State)

With glad Applauses to congratulate

The Worthie Honour of your Charge begun

(Though not, perhaps, so long and lowd, as Many)

Accept my Ave, as Devont as Any.

THE 1633 POSTHUMI

[Or Sylvesters Remains: Contayning Divers Sonnets, Epistles, Elegies, Epitaphs, Epigrams, and Other Delightfull Devises]

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SONNET XVII

Love, doe thy worst, use all thy tyrannies,

And as thou list torment and torture mee:

I'll ne'r relent, nor shalt thou ever see

Mee cease to serve her ever-sacred eyes.

I know my fault, and knowing I confesse it;

Like th'Argive Lad, I tooke my flight too high:

But what of that? There's now no remedy,

Unlesse, perhaps, propitious death redresse it.

Back reason (then) thou dost in vaine advise mee;

If death prevent mee, then my paine expires,

And honour'd death doth waite on high desires;

I must proceed what ever end arise mee:

If it were pride, at first, to undertake it,

´Twere cowardize, now, faintly to forsake it.

WILLIAM DRUMMOND OF HAWTHORNDEN

(1585—1649)

Poems: Amorous, Funerall, Divine, Pastorall: in Sonnets, Songs, Sextains, Madrigals_1616

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POEMS (The First Part)

SONNET I

In my first years, and prime yet not at height,

When sweet conceits my wits did entertain,

Ere beauty's force I knew, or false delight,

Or to what oar she did her captives chain,

Led by a sacred troop of Phoebus' train,

I first began to read, then lov'd to write,

And so to praise a perfect red and white,

But, God wot, wist not what was in my brain:

Love smil'd to see in what an awful guise

I turn'd those antiques of the age of gold,

And, that I might more mysteries behold,

He set so fair a volume to mine eyes,

That I (quires clos'd which, dead, dead sighs but breathe)

Joy on this living book to read my death.

SONNET L

How many times night's silent queen her face

Hath hid, how oft with stars in silver mask

In Heaven's great hall she hath begun her task,

And cheer'd the waking eye in lower place!

How oft the sun hath made by Heaven's swift race

The happy lover to forsake the breast

Of his dear lady, wishing in the west

His golden coach to run had larger space!

I ever count, and number, since, alas!

I bade farewell to my heart's dearest guest;

The miles I compass, and in mind I chase

The floods and mountains hold me from my rest:

But, woe is me! long count and count may I,

Ere I see her whose absence makes me die.

SONNET III

Ye who so curiously do paint your thoughts,

Enlight'ning ev'ry line in such a guise,

That they seem rather to have fall'n from skies,

Than of a human hand be mortal draughts;

In one part Sorrow so tormented lies,

As if his life at ev'ry sigh would part;

Love here blindfolded stands with bow and dart,

There Hope looks pale, Despair with rainy eyes:

Of my rude pencil look not for such art,

My wit I find now lessened to devise

So high conceptions to express my smart,

And some think love but feign'd, if too too wise.

These troubled words and lines confus'd you find,

Are like unto their model, my sick mind.

POSTHUMOUS POEMS

IN THE SAME SORT OF RHYME

As the young fawn, when winter's gone away

(Unto a sweeter season granting place),

More wanton grown by smiles of heaven's fair face,

Leaveth the silent woods at break of day,

And now on hills and now by brooks doth prey         

On tender flowers, secure and solitar, 

Far from all cabins, and where shepherds are;

Where his desire him guides, his foot doth stray;

He feareth not the dart, nor other arms,

Till he be shot into the noblest part         

By cunning archer who in dark bush lies:

So innocent, not fearing coming harms,

Wandering was I that day when your fair eyes,

World-killing shafts, gave death-wounds to my heart. 

LADY MARY WROTH

(1587—1653)

Pamphilia to Amphilanthus_1621

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SONNET V

Can pleasing sight, misfortune ever bring?

Can firm desire ever, torments try?

Can winning eyes prove to the hart a sting?

Or can sweet lips in treason hidden lie?

The Sun most pleasing blinds the strongest eye

If too much look'd on, breaking the sight's string;

Desires crossed must unto mischiefs hie,

And as despair, a luckless chance may fling.

Eyes, having won, rejecting proves a sting

Killing the bud before the tree doth spring,

Sweet lips not loving doth as poison prove.

Desire, sight, eyes, lips, seek, see, prove, and find

You love may win, but curses if unkind,

Then show you harm's dislike, and joy in Love.

SONNET II

Is to leave all and take the thread of Love,

Which line straight leads unto the soul's content,

Where choice delights with pleasure's wings do move,

And idle fant'sy never room had lent.

When chaste thoughts guide us, then our minds are bent

To take that good which ills from us remove:

Light of true love brings fruit which none repent;

But constant lovers seek and wish to prove.

Love is the shining star of blessing's light,

The fervent fire of zeal, the root of peace,

The lasting lamp, fed with the oil of right,

Image of faith, and womb for joy's increase.

Love is true virtue, and his end's delight,

His flames are joys, his bands true lover's might.

SONNET IX

Be you all pleased? Your pleasures grieve not me;

Do you delight? I envy not your joy;

Have you content? Contentment with you be:

Hope you for bliss? Hope still, and still enjoy:

Let sad misfortune hapless me destroy,

Leave crosses to rule me, and still rule free,

While all delights their contraries employ

To keep good back, and I but torments see,

Joys are bereaved, and harms do only tarry;

Despair takes place, disdain hath got the hand;

Yet firm love holds my senses in such band

As since despised, I, with sorrow marry;

Then if with grief I now must coupled be

Sorrow I'll wed: despair thus governs me.

SONNET VIII

How glowworm-like the sun doth now appear,

Cold beams do from his glorious face descend,

Which shows his days and force draw to an end,

Or that to leave-taking his time grows near.

This day his face did seem but pale, though clear,

The reason is: he to the North must lend

His light, and warmth must to that climate bend

Whose frozen parts could not love's heat hold dear.

Alas if thou (bright sun) to part from hence

Grieve so, what must I, hapless, who from thence

Where thou dost go my blessing shall attend?

Thou shalt enjoy that sight for which I die,

And in my heart thy fortunes do envy—

Yet grieve, I'll love thee, for this state may mend.

PATRICK HANNAY

(¿?—1629)

Songs and Sonnets_1622

   

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L. —Hence loose alluring looks, no more of Love,

No more thy seeming virtues shall deceive me.

M. —Come, come my dearest, speak not thus to prove

How well I love; thou think'st it doth not grieve me.

L. —Thy beauty was a bait to draw mine eye.

M. —And with thy blink my heart was set on fire.

L. —I thought to find a suiting soul in thee

M. —Thy love's the limit that bounds my desire.

L. —Thy looseness makes my love's date now expire.

M. —Where then thy vows? 

…………………. L. —Gone with thy seeming worth.

M. —And made to me?

 ………………... L. —No, virtue brought them forth.

Which failing now no fuel feeds my fire.

M. —My heart's the harbour where thy hopes must stay.

L. —Where ground's not good, an anchor drags away.

GEORGE WHITER

(1588—1667)

Poems_1622

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ELEGY 1

Now that beloved Henry’s glasse is runne,           

And the last duties to his body showne,                   

Now that his sad-sad Obsequies be done,                 

And publicke sorowes well-nigh over-blowne:          

Now give me leave to leave all Joyes at one,                

For a dull Melancholy loneliness;                               

To pine my selfe with a selfe-pining mone,              

And fat my greefe with solitarines.                             

For if it be a comfort in distresse,                               

(As some thinke) to have sharers in our woes,                 

Then I desire to be comfortles.                                  

My Soule in publicke greefe no pleasure knowes.              

Yea, I could wish, and for that wish would die,                

That there were none had cause to greeve, but I.         

ELEGY 22

Oh cruell, and insatiable Death!

Would none suffice, would none suffice but he?

What pleasure was it more to stop his breath,

Then for to choke, or kill, or poyson me?

My life for his, with thrice three millions more,

We would have given as a ransome to thee;

But since thou in his losse hast made us pore,

Foule Tyrant, it shall never honor do thee:

For thou hast showne thy selfe a spightfull fiend,

Yea Death thou didst envie his happie state,

And therefore thoughtst to bring it to an end;

But see, see whereto God hath turnd thy hate.

Thou mean'st to marre the blisse he had before:

And by thy spight: hast made it ten times more.

JOHN DONNE

(1572—1631)

Holy Sonnets_1633

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SONNET II

As due by many titles I resigne

My selfe to thee, O God, first I was made

By thee, and for thee, and when I was decay'd

Thy blood bought that, the which before was thine;

I am thy sonne, made with thy selfe to shine,

Thy servant, whose paines thou hast still repaid,

Thy sheepe, thine Image, and, till I betray'd

My selfe, a temple of thy Spirit divine;

Why doth the devill then usurpe on mee?

Why doth he steale, nay ravish that's thy right?

Except thou rise and for thine owne worke fight,

Oh I shall soone despaire, when I doe see

That thou lov'st mankind well, yet wilt'not chuse me,

And Satan hates mee, yet is loth to lose mee.

SONNET IX

If poysonous mineralls, and if that tree,

Whose fruit threw death on else immortall us,

If lecherous goats, if serpents envious

Cannot be damn'd; Alas; why should I bee?

Why should intent or reason, borne in mee,

Make sinnes, else equall, in mee more heinous?

And mercy being easie, and glorious

To God; in his sterne wrath, why threatens hee?

But who am I, that dare dispute with thee

O God? Oh! Of thine onely worthy blood,

And my teares, make a heavenly Lethean flood,

And drowne in it my sinnes blacke memorie;

That thou remember them, some claime as debt,

I thinke it mercy, if thou wilt forget.

FULKE GREVILLE, LORD BROOKE

(1554—1628)

Cælica_1633

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SONNET XVI

Fie foolish Earth, think you the heaven wants glory,

Because your shadows do yourself benight?

All's dark unto the blind, let them be sorry;

The heavens in themselves are ever bright.

Fie fond Desire, think you that Love wants glory,

Because your shadows do yourself benight?

The hopes and fears of lust, may make men sorry,

But Love still in herself finds her delight.

Then Earth stand fast, the sky that you benight,

Will turn again, and so restore your glory;

Desire be steady, hope is your delight,

An orb wherein no creature can be sorry;

Love being plac'd above these middle regions,

Where every passion wars itself with legions.

SONNET XXXIII

Cupid, thy folly blears sweet Myra's eyes,

For like the blind, that upwards look for light,

You fix those fatal stars on fortune's skies,

As though such planets gave not fortune might.

Base boy, what heart will do him sacrifice,

That wraps repentance in his greatest pleasure?

And his true servants under fortune ties,

As though his own coin were no current treasure?

Must Danae's lap be wet with golden showers?

Or through the seas must bulls Europa bear?

Must Leda only serve the higher powers?

Base changeling boy, and wouldst thou have me swear

The well-known secrets of Astolpho's cup

Not to disclose, but with white wax seal up?

SONNET LXV

Caelica, when I was from your presence bound,

At first goodwill both sorrowed and repined,

Love, faith, and nature felt restraint a wound,

Honor itself to kindness yet inclined;

Your vows one way with your desires did go,

Self-pity then in you did pity me,

Yea, sex did scorn to be imprisoned so,

But fire goes out for lack of vent we see.

For when with time desire had made a truce,

I only was exempt, the world left free,

Yet what win you by bringing change in use,

But to make current infidelity?

Caelica, you say you love me, but you fear,

Then hide me in your heart, and keep me there.

GEORGE HERBERT

(1593—1633)

The Temple_1633

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LOVE 

I

Immortal Love, author of this great frame,

Sprung from that beauty which can never fade,

How hath man parcel'd out Thy glorious name,

And thrown it on that dust which Thou hast made,

While mortal love doth all the title gain!

Which siding with Invention, they together

Bear all the sway, possessing heart and brain,

(Thy workmanship) and give Thee share in neither.

Wit fancies beauty, beauty raiseth wit;

The world is theirs, they two play out the game,

Thou standing by: and though Thy glorious name

Wrought our deliverance from th' infernal pit,

Who sings Thy praise? Only a scarf or glove

Doth warm our hands, and make them write of love.

EDWARD HERBERT, LORD OF CHERBURY

(1583—1648)

Occasional Verses_1648

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LOVE'S END

Thus ends my Love, but this doth grieve me most,      

That so it ends, but that ends too, this yet,                    

Besides the Wishes, hopes and time I lost,                    

Troubles my mind awhile, that I am set                          

Free, worse then denied: I can neither boast                

Choice nor success, as my Case is, nor get                    

Pardon from myself; that I loved not                             

A better Mistress, or her worse; this Debt                     

Only's her due, still, that she be forgot                          

Ere chang'd, lest I love none; this done, the taint        

Of foul Inconstancy is clear'd at least                            

In me, there only rests but to unpaint                            

Her form in my mind, that so dispossest                       

It be a Temple, but without a Saint.       

TO HER BODY

Regardful Pretence! Whose fix'd Majesty                  

Darts Admiration on the gazing Look,                      

That brings it not: State sits inthron'd in thee,        

Divulging forth her Laws in the fair Book                 

Of thy Commandements, which none mistook,     

That ever humbly came therein to see                      

Their own unworthiness: Oh! How can I                  

Enough admire that Symmetry, exprest                  

In new proportions, which doth give the Lie          

To that Arithmetique which hath profest               

All Numbers to be Hers? Thy Harmony                  

Comes from the Spheres, and there doth prove      

Strange measures so well grac'd, as Majesty             

Itself, like thee would rest, like thee would move.    

TO HER FACE

Fatal Aspect! That hast an Influence

More powerful far than those Immortal Fires

That but incline the Will and move the Sense,

Which thou alone contrain'st, kindling Desires

Of such an holy force, as more inspires

The Soul with Knowledge, than Experience

Or Revelation can do with all

Their borrow'd helps: Sacred Astonishment

Sits on thy Brow, threatning a sudden fall

To all those Thoughts that are not lowly sent,

In wonder and amaze, dazling that Eye

Which on those Mysteries doth rudely gaze,

Vow'd only unto Love's Divinity:

Sure Adam sinn'd not in that spotless Face.

ANOTHER SONNET TO BLACK ITSELF

Thou Black, wherein all colours are compos'd,

And unto which they all at last return,

Thou colour of the Sun where it doth burn,

And shadow, where it cools, in thee is clos'd

Whatever nature can, or hath dispos'd

In any other Hue: from thee do rise

Those tempers and complexions, which disclos'd,

As parts of thee, do work as mysteries,

Of that thy hidden power; when thou dost reign

The characters of fate shine in the Skies,

And tell us what the Heavens do ordain,

But when Earth's common light shines to our eyes,

Thou so retir'st thyself, that thy disdain

All revelation unto Man denies.

SONNET OF BLACK BEAUTY

Black beauty, which above that common light,

Whose Power can no colours here renew

But those which darkness can again subdue,

Do'st still remain unvary'd to the sight,

And like an object equal to the view,

Art neither chang'd with day, nor hid with night

When all these colours which the world call bright,

And which old Poetry doth so persue,

Are with the night so perished and gone,

That of their being there remains no mark,

Thou still abidest so intirely one,

That we may know thy blackness is a spark

Of light inaccessible, and alone

Our darkness which can make us think it dark.

JOHN MILTON

(1608—1674)

Los sonetos de este poeta aparecieron en dos libros: 

Milton's 1645 Poems 

 Milton's 1673 Poems.

En el primero de ellos constan los sonetos numerados del I al X; pero en el segundo aparecen los sonetos XI, XII, XIII, XIV, XVIII, XIX, XX, XXI y XXIII.

Los que faltan no fueron colectados oportunamente en ninguna obra, pero su data es la siguiente:

XV_1648_ABBAABBACDDCDC

XVI_1652_ABBAABBACDDCEE

XVII_1652_ABBAABBACDECDE

XXII_Compuesta no antes de 1655_ABBAABBACDCDCD

POEMS_1645

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SONNET I

O Nightingale, that on yon bloomy Spray

Warbl'st at eeve, when all the Woods are still,

Thou with fresh hope the Lovers heart dost fill,

While the jolly hours lead on propitious May,

Thy liquid notes that close the eye of Day, 

First heard before the shallow Cuccoo's bill

Portend success in love; O if Jove's will

Have linkt that amorous power to thy soft lay,

Now timely sing, ere the rude Bird of Hate

Foretell my hopeles doom in som Grove ny: 

As thou from yeer to yeer hast sung too late

For my relief; yet hadst no reason why,

Whether the Muse, or Love call thee his mate,

Both them I serve, and of their train am I.

POEMS_1673

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SONNET XII

I did but prompt the age to quit their clogs

By the known rules of ancient liberty,

When straight a barbarous noise environs me

Of owls and cuckoos, asses, apes and dogs:

As when those hinds that were transform'd to frogs

Rail'd at Latona's twin-born progeny

Which after held the sun and moon in fee.

But this is got by casting pearl to hogs,

That bawl for freedom in their senseless mood,                   

And still revolt when truth would set them free.           

Licence they mean when they cry liberty;                     

For who loves that, must first be wise and good.                 

But from that mark how far they rove we see,             

For all this waste of wealth and loss of blood.    

NO COLECTADOS 

SONNET XV

ON THE LORD GENERALFAIRFAX AT THE SIEGE OF COLCHESTER

(1648)

Fairfax, whose name in arms through Europe rings

Filling each mouth with envy, or with praise,

And all her jealous monarchs with amaze

And rumours loud, that daunt remotest kings;

Thy firm unshak'n virtue ever brings

Victory home, though new rebellions raise

Their hydra heads, and the false north displays

Her brok'n league, to imp their serpent wings:

O yet a nobler task awaits thy hand;

For what can war but endless war still breed?

Till Truth and Right from Violence be freed,

And Public Faith clear'd from the shameful brand

Of Public Fraud. In vain doth Valour bleed

PHILIP AYRES

(1638—1712)

Lyric poems, made in imitation of the Italians of which, many are translations from other languages_1687

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ON THE DEATH OF SYLVIA

Oh Death! Without regard to wrong or right,

All things at will thy boundless Rage devours;

This tender Plant thou hast cut down in spight,

And scatter'd on the Ground its Fruit, and Flowers.

Our Love's extinct that with such Ardour burn'd,

And all my Hope of future Pleasure dyes;

Nature's chief Master-piece to Earth's return'd,

Deaf to my Passion, and my grievous Cryes.

Sylvia, the Tears which on thy Sepulchre,

Hereafter shall be shed, or those now are,

Thô fruitless, yet I offer them to thee,

Until the coming of th' Eternal Night

Shall close these Eyes, once happy with thy Sight,

And give me Eyes with which I thee may see.

THE REQUEST: TO LOVE

O Love, who in my breast's most noble part,

Didst that fair Image lodge, that Form Divine,

In whom the sum of Heavenly Graces shine,

And there ingrav'dst it with thy golden dart.

Now, mighty Workman! Help me by thy art,

(Since my dull pen trembles to strike a line)

That I on paper copy the design,

By thee express'd so lively in my heart.

Lend me, when I this great attempt do try,

A feather from thy wings, that whilst to write,

My hand's employ'd, my thoughts may soar on high;

Thy Torch, which fires our hearts and burns so bright,

My darker fancy let its flame supply,

And through my numbers dart celestial light.

CHARLES COTTON

(1630—1687)

Poems on several occasions_1689

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Chloris, whil’st thou and I were free,

Wedded to nought but Liberty,

How sweetly happy did we live,

How free to promise, free to give?

Then, Monarch's of our selves, we might

Love here, or there, to change delight,

And ty'd to none, with all dispence,

Paying each Love its recompence.

But in that happy freedom, we

Were so improvidently free,

To give away our liberties;

And now in fruitful sorrow pine

At what we are, what might have bin,

Had thou, or I, or both been wise.

Go false one, now I see the cheat,

Your love was all a Counterfeit,

And I was gall'd to think that you,

Or any she, could long be true.

How could you once so kind appear,

To kiss, to sigh, and shed a tear,

To cherish and caress me so,

And now not let but bid me go?

Oh Woman! Frailty is thy name,

Since she's untrue y'are all to blame,

And but in man no truth is sound:

'Tis a fair Sex, we all must love it,

But (on my conscience) could we prove it,

They all are false ev'n under ground.

What have I left to do but die,

Since Hope, my old Companion,

That train'd me from my Infancy,

My Friend, my Comforter is gone?

Oh fawning, false, deceiving Friend!

Accursed be thy Flatteries,

Which treacherously did intend

I should be wretched to be wise:

And so I am; for being taught

To know thy guiles, have only wrought

My greater misery and pain:

My misery is yet so great,

That, though I have found out the Cheat,

I wish for thee again in vain.

How should'st thou love, and not offend?

Why, Cloris, I will tell thee how,

As thou did'st once, so love me now,

And lye with me, and there's an end.

Thou only art enjoyn'd (my Sweet)

To keep thy Reputation high,

And that indeed is Secrecy,

Since all do err, though all not see't.

Then fairest, fearless of all blame,

That sacred Treasure of thy Name

Into my faithful Arms commit;

Thou once did'st trust me with thy Fame,

I then was just and true to it,

And, Chloris, I am still the same.

WILLIAM WALSH

(1663—1708)

Collection of Letters and Poems, Amorous and Gallant_1692

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DEATH

What has this bugbear Death that’s worth our care?

After a life in pain and sorrow past,

After deluding Hope and dire despair,

Death only gives us Quiet at the last.

How strangely are our love and hate misplac'd!

Freedom we seek, and yet from Freedom flee;

Courting those tyrant-sins that chain us fast,

And shunning Death, that only sets us free.

'Tis not a foolish fear of future pains,

(Why should they fear who keep their souls from stains?)

That makes me dread thy terrors, Death, to see:

'Tis not the loss of riches, or of fame,

Or the vain toys the vulgar pleasures name;

'Tis nothing, Caelia, but the losing thee.

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OBRAS CONSULTADAS:

ALEXANDER B. GROSART, The Complete Works of Joshuah Sylvester, Volúmenes I y II, 1880.

THE POEMS OF WILLIAM DRUMMOND OF HAWTHORNDEN, Volúmenes I y II, Editado por William C. Ward, 1894.

SCOTTISH POETRY OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY, Editado por George Eyre-Todd, 1895.

MINOR POETS OF THE CAROLINE PERIOD, Volúmenes I y II, Editado por George Saintsbury, 1905.